


The Morning After

by phae



Series: B.A.N.D. Takes the Stage [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Awkwardness, Confessions, Getting Together, Hangover, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4422731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint wakes up spooned with a guy who's gotta be a giant dork, judging by the room decor around him. Fortunately for him, said dork is the guy he's had a crush on since high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> Major props to [desert-neon](http://desert-neon.tumblr.com/) for jumping in to beta this for me! Thank you so much!!!

Clint wakes up with his face smashed into a pillow that’s way too fluffy to be his, cool sheets tangled around his legs and a warm arm slung over his waist, holding him so that his back is flush against the bare skin of someone’s chest. His head feels tight, like it’s being pinched between a giant’s beefy fingers, and his tongue feels fuzzy, which is usually how he feels the morning after drinking too much booze and too little water. Careful to keep his breathing even and slow, he moves his head just enough so that his eyes can flit around the room, taking stock of his situation without waking his bed partner.

 

He can make out the edge of a fire escape on the other side of the window to his right, the dark blue curtains open enough to let in a good amount of natural light, but thankfully not enough that said light is anywhere close to falling over his eyes ‘cause his head’s pounding enough already, thanks. There’s the usual sounds of city hustle and bustle, so he’s probably in an apartment, somewhere on the subway line.

 

The actual room is untidy, pretty similar to how Clint keeps his own place. There’re clothes thrown around all over—the top of the dresser, the back of the computer chair, the floor—and his own are hopefully in the mix somewhere because they’re definitely not on his body at the moment.

 

Posters are covering all the available wall space that Clint can see. Superheroes mostly. Some of them look like comic book covers while others are movie posters from the blockbusters Clint grew up with, like _Batman Begins_ and _Hellboy_.

 

The desk is full of the usual clutter, books and pens and headphones. The computer is an older-looking desktop like they’ve got in the back office at work, and the screensaver is that annoying Microsoft default one, text bouncing around the screen in changing colors. Clint squints to focus on the letters and can make out _Call Mom back_ , which—Clint bites down on his bottom lip to keep from laughing, but he can’t keep his shoulders from jerking forward.

 

Whoever’s behind him starts to stir at the sudden movement.

 

The arm slips away slowly and the sheets shift down, exposing a whole lot of Clint’s naked skin to the open air, but hey! He’s still got his underwear on, and they don’t feel crusty with dried jizz, so five points to Drunk Clint for passing out before managing to cross the finish line with a stranger.

 

The guy behind him groans as he rolls out of bed, and Clint holds himself so still he stops breathing for a few seconds, and then the guy shuffles around the end of the bed, heading for a door Clint assumes leads to the bathroom and walking right through Clint’s line of sight in the process.

 

Clint takes in the Batman boxer-briefs clinging to a perky ass first, which, really, who can fault him for that? It’s right at eye-level with Clint still lying down. His eyes are drawn up the guy’s lean back when he moves his arm up, hand coming up to rub at his face as he continues to grumble under his breath. (Something about his eyeballs, _what_?) And then, of course, the play of colors spreading from the guy’s shoulders and down his arms grab Clint’s attention, and the insistent head-throbbing might just be his brain trying to knock some sense into him because—

 

_Clint knows those tattoos._

 

Phil disappears into the bathroom and a faucet cuts on. Clint has a silent, minor panic attack and suppresses the need to pee. (Shit. _Fuck_. What are you doing in Phil Coulson’s bed, ‘cause, _seriously_!?)

 

Clint scrambles up so that he’s sitting, tries to get out of the bed, but his legs are twisted up in the comforter shoved down at the foot and kicking at it doesn’t seem to be helping. He looks around frantically for his clothes and notices the black smudges on the pillow he was just laying on. He has a moment to mentally scoff (fucking _eyeliner_ ) and then enough of last night comes back to him that he can at least connect the dots.

 

Clint swipes at his eyes uselessly—he damn well knows that shit only comes off when it’s least convenient. He probably looks like a homicidal raccoon now.

 

The faint rush of water turns off and it sounds like Phil is opening and rustling through drawers.

 

Clint turns around to the nightstand, looking for a box of Kleenex or something, but no luck. And _come on_ , really? What self-respecting guy doesn’t keep some tissues in easy reach of his bed? He’s eyeing the already-ruined pillow cover—‘cause more eyeliner sure as shit ain’t going to make a difference at this point—when Phil wanders back into the bedroom, head thrown back and a bottle of Advil in his hand.

 

Phil’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows (and hell-o, what a view) and then he brings the bottle up to his mouth to shake another pill out. His head drops back down as he’s moving the bottle away, a stray pill falling to the floor with a faint clatter, which conveniently puts Clint right in his field of vision.

 

Phil is sporting a pair of chunky, black-framed glasses over his puffy eyes, and as he blinks owlishly at Clint from behind the lenses, Clint surreptitiously pools the sheet over his lap as thickly as he can. Phil gulps audibly, and then his face contorts as he starts hacking and beating his chest because he apparently swallowed that pill all kinds of wrong.

 

Clint starts to shift up on the bed, then thinks better out it when the sheet pulls away from his bare thighs. “Are you okay?” he asks hesitantly.

 

Phil flaps a hand at him, still coughing and unable to actually answer him. Granted, even once he’s recovered from his choking fit, Phil still doesn’t say anything, just goes back to staring at Clint. The silence between them stretches out awkwardly, and the dull ache in Clint’s head, shoved to the back of his awareness once the panic started to set in, pushes its way back to the forefront with a spike of pain that’s enough to make Clint wince. He waves his hand towards Phil, who’s still holding the bottle of Advil, and says, “Uh, you think I could get some of those if it’s not too much trouble?”

 

Wordlessly, Phil reaches out to hand the bottle over. Clint’s fingers just barely brush against Phil’s as he takes it, but the brief contact seems to send a shock through Phil. “You—you are not a dream,” he mumbles dazedly.

 

The confused smile stretching over his face is more of a reflex than a conscious reaction at this point in Clint’s life. “I mean, not the last time I checked? Not sure there’s really a conclusive test to check for that, though.” He shakes two pills out of the bottle and pops them in his mouth, dry swallowing them with a frown.

 

“You’re really here,” Phil continues, and Clint’s not sure he even noticed him talking. “In my bed. In my apartment. _Shit, my apartment_.” Phil’s face abruptly drains of all color before it rushes back to flush his cheeks as he shuffles over awkwardly, arms flung out like that’ll block Clint’s view of the nearest posters on the wall.  “Uh, I can explain—” Phil starts while Clint just stares at him, wide-eyed and a little gobsmacked at this dorky, frazzled side of Phil.

 

(Back in high school, he’d heard plenty from Nick and Jasper about Phil in fact being a total goob whenever Clint would start waxing poetic on the smooth-operator he always caught sight of in the halls, but this is the first time he’s ever seen evidence that they weren’t just yanking his chain in a vain attempt to make Phil seem approachable.)

 

Phil seems to realize that his minor freak-out isn’t helping on the explanation front because he forcibly reins in his splayed arms and rolls his shoulders back before settling them into a practiced-looking slouch, his hands curled around the waistband of his boxers.

 

“Touring all over, you know how it is,” he starts, shrugging casually. But then his face scrunches up and he continues, “Well, not actually, but I’m sure you can imagine. Hit the big time, bought my mom a house, still never managed to move out of here, though. And I haven’t really been home for longer than a week or so in—I don’t know anymore, it’s been that long. So, you know, I haven’t had much of a chance to redecorate. This is just—leftover. From, uh, middle school.”

 

Clint really wants to call Phil on that because from where he’s sitting, he’s got a clear view of Phil’s chest and a mystery seven years in the making has finally been solved: Phil’s first tattoo, that he got back during his senior year, is Captain America’s shield. But Clint’s not sure if he’s allowed to tease Phil in this situation, seeing as they drunkenly decided to crawl into bed together. While he’s debating how to respond, his stomach chooses to jump in for him, gurgling loudly.

 

“Are you hungry?” Phil’s already backing up out of the room as he asks. “I can feed you. Not, like—shit, that sounded weird. Ignore me. I’ll just go find you something to eat.” He pivots sharply and beats a hasty retreat.

 

Befuddled, Clint pulls the sheet tight over his legs and glances around the room looking for his clothes again. Nothing jumps out as obviously his, the jeans on the floor all too dark-washed and free of holes to be his, and the shirts piled on the dresser all seem to be nerd-themed screen tees. When Phil appears back in the doorway suddenly, Clint startles. His fingers are laced together and his arms are hanging loosely, making it look like he’s attempting to cover the fact that he’s still just in his underwear. But there’s the hint of a blush staining his cheeks, and if Clint’s not mistaken, his hands are strategically placed to hide the inklings of a bulge. “So, I mentioned the touring thing, right?” Phil asks distractedly.

 

“Uh, yeah. You did.”

 

“Right. And it looks like, in addition to never changing the décor in this place, I’ve also never much bothered with groceries,” Phil explains, inching his way back into the room.

 

“Makes sense.”

 

“There’s usually a food truck lurking somewhere around the block, though, and their breakfast burritos come highly recommended. Won’t take five minutes, I swear.” He’s already pulling on clothes from the floor, but his eyes stay glued to Clint like he can’t bear to look away. It’s a nice look, both coming from Phil, and to be the recipient of; it makes Clint’s insides feel all gooey and warm.

 

Phil’s leg gets tangled up in the jeans he’s trying to slip on, and he’s only saved from wiping out on the floor because he falls forward and his head bounces off the edge of the mattress. Clint rolls up onto his knees and the sheet falls way, his hands outstretched like he’ll be able to help somehow, possibly, but Phil shoots right back up, saying, “I’m fine! Nothing to worry about. Hangovers, am I right? Can’t stay standing for shit.” Phil’s backing out of the bedroom, his hands waving around as he rambles, grabbing a shirt haphazardly on his way, and Clint barely has time to flinch and open his mouth to call out a warning before Phil bangs his elbow into the door jamb. “Fu—fine! Still fine! No need to get out of bed. You just—stay. Right there. Don’t move.”

 

Phil stays in the doorway and stares at Clint, who really has no reason not to stare right back, at least until Phil spins around hastily and jogs out of the apartment, calling back, “Five minutes, ten tops!” The door slams twice, first presumably into the wall, and then again behind Phil on his way out.

 

And Clint is left kneeling on Phil’s bed with the mattress sagging under his weight, staring at Phil’s fading afterimage and wondering if he should have mentioned that Phil had walked off with Clint’s shirt from last night instead of one of his own.

 

A minute passes, and then it really starts to sink in that Clint is in _Phil Coulson’s_ apartment. And he still needs to pee.

 

He steps off the bed and hesitates for a moment, the sheet fisted against his side, but really, what’s it matter if he walks around in his underwear when he’s the only one around? So he shuffles into the bathroom to take care of business, squirts some toothpaste on his finger to scrub away the worst of the mouth-fuzzies, and then once he steps back into the bedroom, well, he’s already up and about, might as well explore some, right?

 

Every available surface, from the desk to the dresser top to the bookshelves, is cluttered up with action figures and other nerdy trinkets. It’s kind of surreal, ‘cause he spent all of high school dreaming up fantasies of somehow finagling an invite back to Phil’s place, and whenever he pulled out mental images from his spank bank of exchanging furtive handjobs in Phil’s bedroom, he always kind of imagined it would be full band posters and sound equipment, the closet full of leather jackets rather than t-shirts with shit printed on them like _The hammer is my penis._ (And seriously, what the _what_?)

 

He scoots the pile of clothes on the desk chair back enough that he can sit on the edge and stares at the screensaver bouncing around while he debates with himself about how much jostling the mouse would lead to an invasion of privacy. But he’s really curious about what Phil’s wallpaper is, okay?

 

Clint can’t help but to let out a giggle, quickly smothered as it is, when the screen clears to reveal an artfully photoshopped compilation of cutouts from the original Captain America comics. Phil is a total Cap fanboy, it’s legit, and Clint really wants to test the waters and ask Phil to the movies to see that new blockbuster from the franchise that’s supposed to hit theaters soon. He’d probably say yes to that, right? Unless he’s got like, some Hollywood-insider cred to get into the big premiere.

 

There’s a video file open, and High School Phil is right there on the screen, paused mid-word with a guitar in his hands. His hair looks a mess, like he was running his hands through it or just hadn’t bothered to brush it since he woke up, and he’s wearing the thick-framed glasses that Clint’s never seen before this morning. The wall behind him is the same one that’s to Clint’s left now, and Clint finds his hand hovering over the space bar on the keyboard without any conscious thought behind the action.

 

He pushes [play](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7cGFs2I3Fo) before he can chicken out, and the song melody picks up immediately, the note Phil was on when he paused the video bleeding into the next seamlessly as he starts in on the lyrics.

 

_I don't admit it_

_I play it cool_

_But every minute_

_That I'm with you_

_I feel the fever and I won't lie_

_I break a sweat_

_My body's telling_

_All the secrets I ain't told you yet, baby_

_I struggle to contain_

_The love that's in my veins_

_And how it circulates_

_If you could take my pulse right now_

_It would feel just like a sledgehammer_

_If you could feel my heartbeat now_

_It would hit you like a sledgehammer_

 

“There’s a reason Jas writes most of our stuff.”

 

Clint jerks away from the computer screen, his finger tapping the spacebar again as he jumps, and swivels around in the chair to face Phil, who’s standing in the bedroom doorway, shoulders hunched as he cradles a brown paper bag splotchy with grease stains. He starts to edge into the room, but only far enough to set the bag down on a surprisingly bare corner of his dresser. With his hands free, one shoots up to fiddle with his glasses, pushing them up on the bridge of his nose even though they’re already up as high as they’ll go. “Apparently my stuff’s too mushy, totally cramps our style.”

 

It’s too late to reach for the stray sheet to cover himself, not without looking like the most awkward duck to ever flail about in his underpants, so Clint tries to subtly pull one leg up in front of him, looping his arms around his ankle to hold it steady. “Gotta say, never took you for the guy who was secretly filling his notebooks with love poems,” Clint admits sheepishly. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that! I think it’s cool. The love poems. Not that you were—what I mean is, I like it. This song.”

 

Phil starts to smile, but then it seems to get confused on his face and he’s grimacing. “Are you trying to compliment me in some roundabout way just so I’ll hand over the food?”

 

“No, I want you to know how good I think it is,” Clint says earnestly, trying to infuse his tone with sincerity. “I can see how it’s not really Jasper or Nick’s thing, Maria either. But it, uh, it suits you, you know?”

 

“What happened to me not being a poetry guy?” Phil scoffs lightly.

 

“Hey, don’t try and pin that one on me,” Clint teases and his mouth ticks up on the side. “You’re the one who played into the stereotypical bad-boy role in high school.”

 

“So, what, you’re saying this is… _more me_?” Phil asks, waving a hand in the general direction of the computer.

 

“It’s the real you. So definitely.”

 

Phil shuffles past Clint at the desk, moving the bag of food from the dresser to the end of the bed as he goes, and skirts around the room until he gets to the nightstand. He’s muttering to himself as he moves, something that sounds suspiciously like, “Nick’s never gonna let me live this down.” Then, more clearly directed at Clint, “Nick said you--I mean, back then, the real me’s not the one you crushed on though, right?”

 

“High School Phil? The one I only ever caught glimpses of and knew more about secondhand from his friends than anything I ever got from the guy? He was the kind of guy kids crush on and dream will just up and ask them to prom or some shit, totally out of the blue. But this Phil right here?” Clint shifts to bring his leg down, gaining more confidence as he goes. “This Phil, who wears glasses and superhero boxers and spills his heart out in a song, he’s the kind of guy people will find themselves falling all kinds of stupid in love with.”

 

Phil looks gobsmacked at the confession, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. But then he seems to pull himself together, and with a sharp nod, he turns to the nightstand and pulls open the bottom drawer. He extracts a beat-up looking composition notebook, the cover peeling back from the lined pages in a wavering curve. He holds it out to Clint without a word, and once Clint hesitantly takes it from him, he flops back on the bed. Clint blinks down at the notebook, not really sure what he’s meant to do with it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Phil sneaking nervous glances at him then pulling his eyes back up to the ceiling. Cautiously, Clint flips the cover open and starts paging through the notebook.

 

It’s filled with song lyrics. Or at least attempts at them. Every page is littered with scribbled out chunks and the margins are filled with notes that all end in question marks. His fingers pause when he runs into a page that weighs more than the rest, and he carefully turns it over. There, taped in the center, is a glossy photo of Nick. And Clint.

 

Clint doesn’t actually remember that picture being taken, but he recognizes the football field behind them where they’re standing on the bleachers, and they’re both decked out in t-shirts and gym shorts, so probably sometime after school while they were waiting for a practice to start, seeing as neither one of them looks like they’re drenched in sweat yet.

 

Curious, he flips to the next weighted page and finds a picture of him and Jasper stuffing their faces at Cici’s Pizza. That one he remembers, ‘cause they’d gone in to test the limits of the all-you-can-eat buffet and got kicked out around the time they were each on their tenth plate.

 

The next page with a photo taped on has him and Maria and Natasha in it, piled onto a loveseat together at some party Stark threw one weekend. Shortly after that picture was taken, Maria and Tasha--only a little bit tipsy, therefore making their behavior inexcusable so far as Clint was concerned--had started making out right there in front of him, both of them squishing him in between them so that he couldn’t get away no matter how much he complained.

 

All of the photos are surrounded by more and more song lyrics, and his eyes catch on his own name scribbled in the margins a time or two, and the more Clint looks through the notebook, the more Clint starts to think (hope, really) that these gushy song lyrics are about _him_. Which is insane, and awesome, and terrifying, and why does his chest feel so tight all of a sudden?

 

Clint tears his eyes away from the notebook to glance over at Phil, who’s sitting back up and, despite the massive flush that’s spreading from his cheeks and down his neck, is looking right at him. Clint opens his mouth to say, well, _something_ , but all he manages is, “Uh…”

 

“I’ve liked you since high school,” Phil blurts out, and Clint can see his fists curling into the hem of (Clint’s!) shirt. “And I’ve never really stopped. I realize that we barely know each other, but I would very much like to rectify that. By dating you. Please.”

 

Clint knows he’s gaping, and he knows it’s not an attractive look on him ( _thank you_ , Tasha, he’s well aware) but he can’t get his mouth to listen to what his brain is telling it, which is mainly to _say something, you giant goob_.

 

Phil’s face, so determined at the outset, is starting to fall, and his eyes finally skitter away from Clint, and that is not what he wants _at all_. So Clint does what he’s best at, which is acting without his brain’s input, and springs up out of the computer chair and drops onto Phil’s lap, smashing their mouths together none too gently.

 

A second later, when the rest of him catches up with what his body’s doing, Clint feels a spike of fear that Phil is going to shove him away because wanting to date a guy does not necessarily equate wanting said guy to appropriate your lap and tongue-fuck your mouth, but then Phil’s hands come up to scrabble at Clint’s back, and they’re sticky with sweat, but they’re definitely pushing Clint further into Phil instead of away, and Clint can work with that.

 

Clint topples them back onto the bed so that Phil’s splayed out under him (and what do you know? This might just become Clint’s favorite place ever to be) and pulls away from Phil’s lips only so that he can trail his mouth down over the jut of his chin, the little hollow at the base of his throat, and start sucking kisses into the inked skin that begins just under Phil’s collarbone. Clint’s right hand drags up over the bed sheet and onto Phil’s chest, absently tracing the Cap shield over his heart.

 

Phil’s breathing heavy, but it’s not like Clint’s got any room to talk, ‘cause so is he. “My memory’s a little, uh, spotty,” Phil pants out as Clint works at the measure of notes elegantly curled around his bicep. “Of last night. But, uh, we didn’t, did we? ‘Cause, I mean, that would be a shame. To not remember doing that. With you.”

 

Pulling away with a lingering lick over the ridge of muscle, Clint assures him, “Pretty sure we just stripped down and cuddled. I have a very firm Not on the First Date rule, and I like to think that Drunk Me would stick to it.”

 

“Always good to have a policy in place,” Phil says, his tone distant. Granted, his attention seems to be pretty adamantly focused on Clint’s lips, so that’s okay.

 

“Yeah. But what do you reckon, breakfast in bed, that’s gotta count as a second date, right?” Clint asks, sliding his hand down Phil’s chest and shifting his weight enough so that he can slip his palm over the growing bulge of Phil’s cock. Phil arches up into the touch, but there’s denim in the way, and that’s right, Phil got dressed, what a shame. Clint’ll just have to peel those clothes right back off of him.

 

“Definitely,” Phil agrees, the word coming out on one long moan. “We’re sober and everything.”

 

Clint’s hands get to work unbuttoning Phil’s jeans while his mouth is busy getting acquainted with every little dent and bump behind Phil’s teeth, and Phil’s fingers walk their way right on down to cup Clint’s ass, and Clint’s gotta say one thing for poor little 16-year-old Clint, frustratedly fucking his fist and trying to pretend it was bad-boy Phil’s: he totally called it when he predicted Phil’d be a biter.

**Author's Note:**

> The song that Phil is singing is Travis Atreo's cover of _Sledgehammer_ by Fifth Harmony. I took Songwriting in college, and am therefore very much aware that I suck at writing songs, so all of the "original" stuff in this verse will be actual songs. Suspension of Disbelief, people!


End file.
